


Silence Has Many Sounds

by TheLightFury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, POV Second Person, Past Child Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Survivor's Guilt!Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightFury/pseuds/TheLightFury
Summary: Everyone has heard silence at some point or another in their lives, even if life is normally busy and loud. But have you heard silence in all it's forms? Throughout their lives, Draco and Harry manage to hear silence in many different ways, some good, and some bad. And somehow, it's through silence they learn to communicate and understand each other...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 87





	Silence Has Many Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> I was sent an ask on Tumblr by the wonderful @nourix-png asking for a headcanon about who in the relationship can stand silence, who talks the most and who talks the least, and found myself writing this instead! Hope you enjoy it! Thanks @dewitty1 for the support :D

Silence has many sounds.

In the dead of night after you’ve been screamed at all day because you burnt yourself on the oven because you’re four and don’t know how to use it properly, it’s the sound of relief. Of reprieve. Of the closest thing to comfort you know.

In the middle of day two of being alone in the house, locked in your cupboard without food and water, and with only a bucket to pee in, it’s the sound of loneliness. Of pain. Of sheer anguish so great, you could never put it into words. They leave you like this more often than you’d like to admit, and every time they do, your soul cries so loudly, so desperately, you feel as though you could shatter apart and scream for hours. But the pain traps you, stifling every whimper with another echo of silent desperation.

When the world fades to black after one too many well-placed cuffs to the head, it’s the sound of resignation. Of acceptance. And of the tiniest bit of gratitude, that you won’t feel the pain anymore, even if only for a little while.

Silence has many sounds.

At the end of the day when you’ve played all day in the gardens with the peacocks, and you’re exhausted from dancing with the sun, it’s the sound of contentment. Of happiness. Of promises of more fun to be had tomorrow.

After being sternly corrected by your father when you’ve failed to navigate the social situation appropriately, it’s the sound of shame. Of humiliation. Of fury, hot, destructive, and misplaced. 

When your mother and father are off staring at some ancient ornament in a shop and ignoring you, it’s the sound of boredom. Grating, and insufferable, and something you always manage to put an end to. Even the desire to be like your father isn’t thrilling enough to keep your attention on a mouldy old painting of a hand.

Silence has many sounds.

In the first days of Hogwarts it’s the sound of awe. Of the first snatches of real happiness you’ve ever experienced. Of disbelief that you’re  _ here.  _ That it’s  _ real.  _ That you might actually belong. It’s tentative, and welcome, and a pleasant companion in this glorious but foreign world.

In the years people disbelieve you, torment you, blatantly lie about you, it’s the sound of injustice. Of quiet, deep seated anger, bubbling and crackling continuously, ready to explode at the flick of a wand. It’s hot. It’s wary. And it’s exhausting.

During the months of leading to the war, it’s the sound of tension. Of planning. Of quickening heartbeats and lumps swallowed in throats. It’s uncomfortable, and necessary, and deafening. You wish it would end, but fear what will happen when it does.

Silence has many sounds.

When the homework towers rise, it’s the sound of whirring minds. Of knowledge being processed, organised, and stored. Of dedication, pride in your work, and determination to be the best. To make your father proud.

In the common room on easy weekends, it’s the sound of cunning. Of scheming to steal points from the other houses. To rile up ‘ _ Perfect Potter’.  _ To finally get him to notice you. It’s thrilling, and exciting, and  _ fun.  _

And when the tensions rise, when the owls come from home and inform you of what’s coming, the glory to be had, it’s the sound of pride. Of anticipation. Of arrogance. Your heart leaps, your mind buzzes, and your whole being thrums. It’s the sound of a fantastic beginning, of your time to shine.

Silence has many sounds.

In the tent, wondering if Ron will ever return, it’s the sound of bitter hurt and disappointment that you hide, unable to face the pain of betrayal from your best friend, unwilling to ask if you were just as wrong as he was. As Hermione wakes up with red puffy eyes, eats less and gets paler each day, it’s the sound of pain, of regret. And when the sun sets on another day of no progress, no answers, and infinitely more frustration, it’s the ever hissing sound of despair reminding you once again that you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing. 

In the wake of the locket being destroyed, it’s the sound of shock, loud, breathtaking, and immobilising. It’s the sound of understanding, of urges to apologise but shame and sheepishness stealing your voice. But somehow, despite everything, it’s the sound of unspoken apologies, of tentative reconciliation, of relief that you’re together again. It’s the beautiful harmony that fuels you on your quest, mends broken bridges, and restores the tiniest bit of normality in the awful world you’re surviving in.

But when the months of silent planning suddenly erupt into a raging battle, silence is the sound of both terror and determination. It hounds you in the sparse moments between harsh hexes and violent curses. It sends your heart rate spiking as you wonder where the next spell is coming from. It crushes you as your friends and family fall, one by one, around you, and forces you on to reach the horcruxes before  _ he  _ does, to do anything needed, to walk into that forest. As you take your last steps, stand before him, and take your last breath without raising your wand, silence screams fear, hope for victory, and sheer panic.

Silence has many sounds.

After the ringing of a scream, it’s the sound of a room of people barely breathing. Of shock. Of death. It haunts you, chilling every inch of your body and it weighs upon you, begging you for a chance to escape, a chance to run. In the manor that’s so full of people and yet so devoid of warmth, happiness, or even anything vaguely  _ right,  _ silence is the sound of allegiances breaking, but evil continuing to rule. It’s the sound of voiceless pleas for change that lack any real spark of hope. It’s the sound of the future.

In the dungeon, it’s the sound of defeat and despair. When the prisoners, too weak, tired, and beaten to fight or even throw a disgusted glance your way wince in pain for moving an inch, or flinch at the sound of your footsteps, silence screams of injustice and desperation for change. It’s the sound of being trapped, being reminded of your fate, of your  _ duty.  _ And it’s sickening. 

And when things finally come to a head and the battle rages, it’s the sound of being overwhelmed; the sound of fighting every fibre in your being. Of desperately praying to be spared by curses, yet wishing for an escape from what your life has become. Of pleading for help, yet not knowing how someone can, and wondering whether you even deserve it. Of wondering what it would be like to feel the caress of green light.

Silence has many sounds.

In the months after the war, it’s the sound of the closest thing to sanity you can get. During the fleeting moments where you don’t have to think, don’t have to do _ anything _ , aren’t being called for something, asked a question, or being smothered by fans, it’s the sound of the responsibility that’s been laid on your shoulders relaxing a little. It’s the sound of being able to take a breath, just one, before you go back to the crowds once more. It’s the sound of respite from the battle you never thought you’d have to fight.

On warm, sunny, early summer days that you spend in dark clothes, it’s the sound of reality hitting, of grief touching — _ clawing _ —at you so hard you can barely breathe. It’s the sound of being reminded, heartbeat by heartbeat, of all you lost, of how much changed for the worst, of all the ways you failed. It’s the sound of all the reasons it doesn’t feel like a victory. 

As ghosts swirl in Grimmauld Place, the only place you can escape the madness that being a ‘hero’ brings, it’s the sound of hot, painful tears you refuse to show. It’s the sound of admitting that you’re not as strong as you’re supposed to be, of wishing they could understand that, of not knowing how to be you anymore, desperately wanting to make them see but unable to be anything other than what they want. It’s the sound of wondering why you came back. Of almost wishing you hadn’t.

Silence has many sounds.

In the months after the war, silence is the sound of icy dread. Of tensely waiting after the slightest sound, your heart thumping wildly. Of the expectation that they’re—that  _ he’s _ —coming back. Back to laugh in your face. To win for good. To finally cast the  _ Crucio  _ that you never recover from. It’s the sound of knowing something categorically won’t happen, and the Boggart in your mind asking ‘ _ But what if…?’ _ And it’s terrifying.

As funeral dates are announced over the Wireless, silence is the sound of guilt. Of regret. Of being sick to your stomach. It’s the sound of wondering why  _ you,  _ of  _ all people,  _ survived. The brat. The spoiled git. The idiot who’d been stupid enough to believe it was an honour to be drafted into a war. It’s the sound of wishing someone,  _ anyone  _ could have survived instead of you, because the world was surely a better place without one more snobby, sodding Malfoy.

As you first walk the halls of Hogwarts again, it’s the sound of rejection. Of isolation. Of prejudice. Deserved, of course, but excruciating all the same. It’s the sound of vowing to be different, to be better, whether people noticed or not. Whether they cared or not. Whether they accepted it, or not. As you carry on with your homework—the only constant in your world—it’s the sound of planning to become someone you’re proud of; someone worth his testimony.

Silence has many sounds.

On nights you wake up screaming, it’s the sound of relief that your silencing charm held. That no-one else heard. That you’re alone. Yet it’s the sound of disappointment that no-one’s there. The sound of fear, cold and visceral, creeping deep into your bones again as you wonder whether this is how life is always going to be now. 

It’s the sound of shock when he appears, just as terrified, pale, and sickly as you feel. The sound of tension, awkwardness, and uncertainty. Your history lies heavy between you, taunting you, torturing you, refusing to lie silently. It’s the sound of memories swarming around you. Of regret. Of faint flickers of annoyance that still make old wounds smart. Yet, despite it all, as you sit on different sofas and both stare into the fire that cannot warm you, silence is the sound of a tentative truce forming. It’s the sound of surprised understanding, realising you know exactly how the other feels with a single glance. Of unspoken agreements to let the past stay in the past because neither of you have the energy to argue any longer. And somehow, though all you do is sit in the same room, silence is the sound of cautious solidarity, supporting each other somehow to make it through the night. It’s the sound of an odd new beginning.

Later, in lessons, or the Great Hall, when everyone else chatters happily around you, it’s the sound of your heart still bleeding. It’s the sound of grief still biting deep beneath the surface. It’s the sound of noticing, even from across the room, that he feels the same. As his eyes meet yours, wearily, the smallest hint of suspicion flickering in them through the ocean of exhaustion and pain, it’s the understanding that someone feels the same as you. It’s the sound of comfort as you know for sure that everything isn’t normal, or right, or fine. That life hasn’t just moved on for everyone. It’s the sound of allowing yourself to think ‘it’s okay not to be okay.’

As you gravitate towards each other, out in the grounds, in Hogsmeade, in the common room at night—where somehow, you’ve stopped sitting on different sofas or in different armchairs, but now sit against each other, as if to prove to yourself that you  _ are  _ alive, you  _ aren’t  _ alone, you  _ can  _ survive—it’s the sound of every fibre of your being relaxing a little. Of life being breathed back into you, one slow, agonising inhale at a time—so slow in fact, that you don’t even notice it at first. And of comfort, soft and gentle, caressing away some of the darkest times. It’s tentative, forgiving, and beautiful, and makes existing that little bit easier.

Silence has many sounds.

When life slowly finds a new normal, one where the past isn’t forgotten but the future actually seems brighter somehow, and conversations flow better between you, it’s the sound of confused pauses after revelations of each other’s past. Of quiet, tender moments between shared laughter. Of overwhelming yet inexpressible emotions as you fall in love with each other more and more each day. It’s the sound of silent promises to make the future better, of gratitude to have each other, and of trust that the other will be there, fighting by your side until the very end.

After the fire returns and snarky and sarcastic jibes morph into venomous stabs and arguments spiral out of control, it’s the echo of doors slamming. Of unspoken insults jumping to your tongue. Of your blood boiling and your fists clenching, the red haze of pure anger descending as you wonder  _ how  _ the prick can still be  _ this annoying?!  _ And what on  _ earth  _ did you see in him?!

When the door quietly closes behind him later, much later, and you meet his guarded, wary, yet blatantly insecure gaze, silence is the sound of all the hurt swirling, overwhelming you for the briefest of seconds, before it gives way to remembering. Remembering the love, the laughter, the battles you’ve fought and won together, and how he’s worth so much more than this. It’s the sound of immediately letting go of your pride. Of unspoken apologies. Of wordless acknowledgements that you’re both idiots. Of tension in the air dissolving into easy harmony once more as lips stretch into soft smiles, the kettle’s put on, and hands creep around your waist again. Claiming you. Making you whole again.

Silence has many sounds.

On days when the crowds are overwhelming, when the reporters at  _ The Prophet  _ won’t leave you alone, and the wounds of the war don’t feel like they’ve healed at all, it’s the sound being loved and cared for better than you could ever hope for. Of healing despite the pain, as slow fingers trail lovingly over your skin. As an endless supply of cups of tea are placed beside you without having to ask or even think about it. 

After heated moments, where hands roamed, demanded, pleaded, and took, it’s the sound of unrivalled pleasure. Of resting boneless beside the man you love, wondering how life—once so devastating and harsh—has come to be so glorious, so happy. Of your heart thrumming with joy as you bathe in the afterglow. It’s the sound of savouring each trace of the smell of his sweat, his skin, his sex, because it’s pure  _ him  _ and he is  _ yours.  _

And when you pause in your daily life, look up from reading your book, watching the TV, or the conversation slows, in the moments after he kisses you, just because, or as he stares into your eyes, that gorgeous smile tugging at his lips, silence is the sound of happiness. Of intimacy. Of warmth that spreads through your chest to the very tips of your fingers. It’s the knowledge that your every want and need you could ever have is met, and your life is complete. It’s the sound of perfection.

Silence has many sounds, and each has a purpose. But these sounds of silence—the love, the peace, the bone-deep contentment and certainty nothing will ever steal happiness from you again—these sounds are your favourite.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it :D


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